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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29209167">Sleight of Hand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendylGirl/pseuds/KendylGirl'>KendylGirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff and Angst, Love, M/M, Plans For The Future, True Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:02:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,917</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29209167</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendylGirl/pseuds/KendylGirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Armie has become persona non grata...but that was the plan, wasn't it?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>146</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sleight of Hand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>As happens so often to me, this idea popped into my head, and I could not move on until I wrote it down.</p><p>For those of you who might need the reminder, this is FICTION.  I have no agenda with respect to the real world; these are my CHARACTERS, which may be based on real people, but they are characters nonetheless.</p><p>Thank you for the patient support of fellow writers who inspire and encourage me!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My grin tugs hard at my dried skin, pressing the warmed glass of the phone tight to my cheek.  I don’t think I’ve smiled once since he left.  “Heeyyyyy!  Wassup, Timmy T?  How you doing?  You all right up there in the cold?”</p><p>A thunk as he swallows.  “Am I…?  No.  No, I’m not all right.  Not at all.”  A strong exhale buzzes static in my ear.  “I can’t take it anymore.  I’m gonna post something.  Armie, I...This shit is--”</p><p>“No.”  I suppress a sigh.  “No, Tim.  You can’t.  You can’t do anything now but lay low.”</p><p>“Yes, I fucking can!”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“But--”</p><p>My eyes close.  “<em>No</em>, Tim<em>. </em>”</p><p>A sharp inhale.  “<em>Yes</em>, goddamnit!”  Guttural and fierce.  “Holy fucking <em> shit, </em> have you even read all of this?  Every fucking day there’s something else and someone else and...a fucking <em> podcast </em> ?  I...it’s just...it’s gone too fucking <em> far</em>!”</p><p>“Easy, Tim.  It’s fine, really.”</p><p>“<em>It’s not fine, Armie!</em>  You’re never gonna work again.  Not after this.  You realize that, right?”  A swish, and his breaths come quickly.  He’s pacing.  I almost smile, picturing the long, fitful strides.  The hand snatching at his hair, twisting it around his fingers.  The snow falling soundlessly outside his hotel room on Boston Harbor, only wind and waves out where there should be tall ships from days gone by.  “The more they pile on, the worse it looks, and you <em> know </em> that studios are all about how it <em> looks </em> .  No one will insure you.  Did they even think of that?  Has anyone even <em> thought </em> of that?  You’ll be too much of a fucking <em> risk</em>.  Then you’ll be unemployable, and everything will fall apart.  <em> Everything</em>.”</p><p>I drop my feet off the coffee table and sit forward on the sofa.  My skin prickles, and I stare down at a gouge in the wood’s fine grain.  “<em>Everything</em>?  Really?  That mean you’re gonna leave me, too?”</p><p>There’s silence on the other end, not even a breath.</p><p>I came back to this island only for my children, for the stolid reminder that even if their mom and I were going our separate ways, that would never apply to them.  They would always be the center of my world, and they are the only reason on the planet that I would willingly return to the place where the concentrated isolation had sucked the life from me until there was barely a heartbeat left to be heard.</p><p>But <em> he </em> had been here this time.  He’d been my heartbeat.  He’d told me stories in the airport to keep me distracted, hilarious tales of trying to learn sword fighting in England and carving a hole in the gym floor at the training center.  Of trying to stuff down all of the cold soup in some lunch he’d ordered by mistake in Hungary, all on Denis’s dime, when he thought he was ordering chicken.  Of ripping his grandma’s drapes and framing Pauline for it.</p><p>He’d held my hand on the plane.</p><p>He’d squeezed it tighter when we had landed.</p><p>He’d pulled it to his lips when we had turned up the drive to the hotel and my stomach had been swarmed with acid.</p><p>He’d swooped in and charmed the valet who’d looked at me wryly as he said, “Welcome back, Mr. Hammer.”  Stepped in front of me and chatted the guy up about garment bags or some shit so that I could turn away and wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, so I could shake away the lingering ghost of the person I’d become before I’d left here six months before, the hollowed shell who’d been near to going completely mad.</p><p>I never could have done this without him, without his patience and sweetness, his kindness and love.</p><p>I can do nothing ever again without that.  Among all of this mess, that is the one thing I know to be true.</p><p>“That what you mean, Tim?  Is that what you’re really trying to say?  Is it?”  My suddenly shrill voice echoes in the emptiness, bouncing off hard surfaces and empty rooms.  </p><p>“No,” he whispers.  “Of course it isn’t.  You know it isn’t.  Armie...”</p><p>I do.  I do know.  But I’ve forgotten how easy it is to lose perspective here, and without him next to me, grounding me with a leg draped over my lap or his lips snug against my neck, it’s so easy to unmoor and drift away from who I am.  From who we are.  From everything I love.</p><p>And now there’s pain in his voice, which is the last thing I want, and I deflate as my bubble of panic subsides.  My eyes close so that I can picture his face, the perfect offset of his teeth when his lips part as my thumb runs across them, when I kiss his cheek, smell the hair at his temple before I breathe <em> I love you </em> into his ear.</p><p>I pinch my thigh to keep the tremor from my voice.  “It’s going to be all right, Timmy.  We knew this would get messy.”</p><p>“Yeah.”  A sigh--a shudder, really--jostles the phone.  “Yeah, I remember.”</p><p>Months ago as we’d listened to the outline of events, the careful timeline of stories planted and revelations made, the various applicants they’d sourced as my supposed hook-ups, and all of it had sounded so far-fetched, almost hilarious, like the plot of a bad Lifetime movie.  As Evelyn had droned on about Instagram and <em> Page Six </em> and the women they’d contracted and the paps they’d lined up for my “random sightings,” I’d glanced at Timmy, who’d been slumped over in his chair, chin in palm, and we’d shared a melancholy smile.  </p><p>I could guess how he was feeling then.  After all, we had been down this road before, a couple of times, only he’d been the one cast in the role of horny heartthrob clickbait.  The reversal didn’t make it easier for either of us, though.  I knew what it had done to me to see pictures of him in Mexico.  I’d downed an entire bottle of Crown Royal and woke up on a beach the next day, mouth full of sand, four miles from where I’d parked my car.  Knowing the itinerary in advance did nothing to soothe the sting.</p><p>Still, the ache in my chest had percolated into a laugh when she’d mentioned the word cannibal as a possible shock-and-awe diversion.  “Oh, for the love of--”  I’d thrown my head back and laughed again.  “Evelyn, seriously, who in the hell would believe <em> any </em> of this?  People aren’t <em> stupid</em>!  I mean, some anonymous troll says something outrageous on IG and--”</p><p>“What, you think Pizzagate and QAnon thrive because genius also does?”  She’d folded her hands on her desk and stared right into my eyes.  “They’ll see it on the internet, Armie.  Repeatedly.  That means they’ll believe every single word.”</p><p>I knew the whole affair had to be big and sloppy, that if I were going to make such a monumental change in my life and actually begin to live the way I wanted--with <em> the one </em> I wanted--I first had to endure being seen by the general public as a veritable man-whore, desperate to screw anything with boobs that entered my zip code, a heterosexual alpha run amok.  Still, I’d thought she was overreaching.  I’d thought she was cynical and ridiculous.  </p><p>She <em> had </em> to be, right?  People aren’t that gullible.</p><p>But as I watched it roll out, saw the salacious articles about my secret life as an abuser, of my withdrawal from projects I’d never actually been attached to; as I saw the flood of outrage on Twitter, the perfect strangers who called me a rapist and demanded I be arrested or killed, I started to believe it myself.  It started to feel real.</p><p>Maybe I <em> am </em> sick.  Maybe I should pay with my life for who I really am.  Maybe my mother was right, that the sins I’m guilty of, the thoughts and desires I’ve had since I was nine years old, make me an abomination to God.</p><p>It’s not like I didn’t try to pretend I was normal, that I was the son she’d really wanted.  I dated girls--hell, lots of girls, on a revolving door.  Most were very pretty; some I even liked.  But when I realized at eighteen that I desperately wanted to fuck my girlfriend’s brother instead of her, I panicked.  I buried that knowledge deep and wished it dead, sheer grit driving me.  Then, I ran as fast as I could into a marriage that I was sure would keep me from ever feeling that way again.</p><p>It didn’t.</p><p>So maybe redemption will remain a grace that I am not worthy of receiving.</p><p>“You know what I’ve been thinking about?”  Tim’s voice is soft, but it makes me jump.  “I just can’t get it out of my mind.”</p><p>I clear my throat.  “What’s that?”</p><p>“My boots.”  He says it like I should’ve known, as if it were obvious.</p><p>I blink slowly.  “Boots?”  Did I hear him right?</p><p>“Yeah, the Berlutis.  You know the ones.  From Berlinale.  Remember?”  I hear some muffled whacks, like he’d flopped down onto a sofa.  </p><p>I don’t really, but I decide to play along.  “Yeah, ummm...sure I do...</p><p>“No, you don’t,” he chides warmly. “But they’re my favorites, so I’m going to wear them to the interview."  </p><p>“The interview?”</p><p>“Yes, <em> the </em> interview... <em> our </em> interview,” he repeats deliberately, separating the syllables of each word.  <em> Of course.  The Revelation</em>.  “Buuuut,” and I can hear the smirk in his voice, feel the loll of his tongue at the corner of his mouth, “I guess the coat is out of the question, isn’t it?” he drawls.</p><p>It’s not a question really.  I’d loved that coat on him, the way the amethyst color had made his eyes glimmer like veins in an opal, the way the lush nap had slid under my fingertips when I’d adjusted his perfectly straight collar again and again, when I’d pulled out a chair for him at the Q&amp;A and watched him blush under his dark plume of robust curls, every bit as soft as the suede.</p><p>He’d worn that coat for me since then, on a variety of occasions.  The last time, about four months ago, he’d worn it and nothing else, greeting me at the door of his apartment that way, scratching his left shin with the toes of his right foot.  He’d casually told me that dinner was almost ready as he’d given himself a few lazy strokes, just before he’d turned away and sauntered toward the kitchen, leaving me where I stood in the doorway, unable to move.</p><p>I don’t think I even remembered to close the front door.  But I do remember that he was leaning back on his elbows against the countertop when I had finally stumbled into the room.  That I had skid over to him and dropped to my knees without a word.  That he made the most delicious whimpering noises on every exhale.  That he knocked over a glass of red wine when his arms flailed because my roving fingers had dipped inside of him.</p><p>All of the burgundy liquid had absorbed into the coat’s thick fabric, leaving a dark stain roughly the shape of Antarctica on his back.  So we joked that it was a map, the secret island where Hollywood banished its gay actors, the ones who aren’t supposed to exist.  Our house, we decided, would be built on the southern shore.</p><p>“I’ve got to look good, you know,” he murmurs.</p><p>“You always look good,” I tell him, stroking my fingers along the underside of my arm, imagining it's his, that I can feel the wisp of his sigh, the prickle of his goosebumps that make him lean against me to squelch a shiver.</p><p>“I can’t believe she agreed to do this for us.  I mean, the woman is a fucking <em> legend</em>, and ...hey, you think she’ll give me an autograph?”</p><p>“If you ask nicely,” I tease, “but I doubt you have to worry. Pretty sure you’re on her coveted list of favorite things.”</p><p>He giggles, and it makes my chest ache. It’s like hearing a favorite song from my childhood on the radio exactly when I needed to hear it.  “Yo, I’m not the one who’s read every fucking title in her book club.  If she gives us a pop quiz, I’m screwed.”</p><p>I grin and cup my hand around my mouth like a megaphone.  “YOU get an F, and YOU get an F, and--”</p><p>He laughs, and there it is again, that music, waves and waves of it.  Everything he says, everything he does, is a melodious arc of bone-deep sound, tuned to the perfect pitch.  “Shut <em> up </em>, I’ve never gotten an F before in my entire life.”</p><p>“Not even in stats?”</p><p>He scoffs, “No!  I rallied, man.  I can rise to any occasion, thank you very much.”</p><p>“‘<em>To </em> any occasion’?  Hmm...I’d happily settle for <em> at </em> any occasion,” I murmur, “and, yes, <em> thank you very much</em>…”</p><p>“I...I mean, I…” he splutters, and I bite my bottom lip.  I can feel the heat of his blush through the phone.  I wish I could see him, lay a finger to the screen and touch the rosy bloom of his cheek, but I’d worried about being quiet since the kids are asleep in the next room, so FaceTime would have to wait.   “You are...you...you just have that effect on me, so…I can’t really <em> help </em> it if--”</p><p>“But that’s a good thing.  That’s a <em> very </em> good thing.”</p><p>I rise and pad to the glass doors of the balcony and look out over the shimmer of the ocean’s horizon swallowing the sun.  Soon it will be an opaque night, just the hiss of waves to keep me from the edge of the void of a lonely planet. </p><p>“We <em> are </em> going to be all right, aren’t we Timmy?  Eventually?”  My breath fogs the thick glass, and it's the only way that I can see it is there, the barrier between me and what lies beyond.  “After all the magic tricks we’re pulling, all the...half-truths and the outright lies and the misdirection and…”  My throat is so tight.  “Just promise me we’re going to be all right.”</p><p>“We will.  I promise.”</p><p>“How do you know?”</p><p>“I just do.”</p><p>“But <em> how</em>?”  I can feel a hot rush of tears push at the corners of my eyes, blurring the edges of my vision.</p><p>When the curtain draws back and the naked truth is exposed, I have no idea what the outcome will be.  It’s all an illusion, a suspension of disbelief that every theatrical performance relies upon, but this one is played out in real time, in real life.  The effort to outwit his audience compels some magicians to try amazing tricks that defy death itself. He walks unassisted over a tank infested by sharks and tries to emerge on the other side unscathed, nary a scratch to show for it, and if he does it, the grateful audience gasps and showers him with thunderous applause. How could they have doubted him?</p><p>Then again, those less skilled at the art get eaten alive, and everyone witness to his painful downfall and shredded limbs wonders how he could’ve been so foolish, so arrogant, to attempt such a stunt when survival was only ever a thin rope that could never hold his weight. </p><p>Tim’s voice dips low.  “You have to have faith, Armie.”</p><p>That’s the gamble we are taking, the elaborate charade that could end with each of us in tatters or both of us victorious. There is no middle between the two extremes. </p><p>I buzz my hand through my hair and exhale shakily.  “That’s...a lot to ask someone like me, Tim.”</p><p>“It is,” he acknowledges quietly.  “We <em> are </em> asking a lot, but what we really want out of this definitely isn’t.”</p><p>I raise an eyebrow.  “I want you.  That’s all I want.”</p><p>“Done.  See how simple that was?” his voice lilts with fragile humor.</p><p>And in this moment, I realize that I am serious.  I’m not exaggerating.  It’s not just a sentiment exchanged, some romantic idea that movie heroes might express but real people never could.  </p><p>I mean it.</p><p>As much as I have loved my work, I could easily say goodbye to film and all that life entails, and I’d never once look back.</p><p>I love him.  I really love him.</p><p>He is not ready to hear this, not in this way, not with this intensity.  The situation is too tumultuous, and I fear he’d not comprehend it, that it might scare him and make him balk, as if he were responsible for robbing me of something when all he’s really done is constantly give--give me life, give me purpose and belonging, when nothing I’ve had, save my children, even came close to it.</p><p>A calm washes over me, one I’ve not felt since I returned to California seven months ago and found him waiting for me.  “You’re right, Timmy.  It <em> is </em> simple.”  I flip my wrist and my watch glows to life.  “Look, it’s pretty late.  I should go and check on the kids.”</p><p>“Yeah, ok.  I’m shit tired anyway.”  I hear the quiet groan of a yawn.</p><p>“All right.  Sleep well.  I’ll call you tomorrow.”</p><p>“Sounds good.”</p><p>“And Timmy?”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“Stay off the internet.”</p><p>A huff.  “Got it.  ‘Night, Armie.”</p><p>“Good night.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you don't remember the Purple Coat of Dreams, here it is: https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo-67th-international-berlin-film-festival-berlinale-call-me-by-your-135890464.html</p><p>I have a couple of works in progress that, considering the explosion of real-life weirdness, I've not been sure if anyone would want to continue to read; I hope that's not the case.  I hope that you can find a way back to the fictional worlds that I and the other writers create.</p><p>Thank you for your time and your support! ❤️</p></blockquote></div></div>
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